


Ache To Know The Song He Sung

by onlyhuman



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Shots, Clubbing, Drinking, Grinding, I can't think of what else at this point, Just Roll With It, Louis in Lingerie, Louis in a croptop, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Oh yes, Pining, Reverse Cowgirl, all of that yeah, and a bit of exhibitionism if you count having sex on a roof terrace, no seriously so many puns, stupid puns for cocktails, this fic is just a giant crack fic I'm so sorry, um, very brief Louis Tomlinson/Jack Falahee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7161689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyhuman/pseuds/onlyhuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ogling hot men is a part of his job that Louis thoroughly enjoys. That is, if the ogling hadn’t been reduced to a bare minimum the second DJ Harry Styles set foot into Funky Payno and ruined every other man for Louis, ever.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or: Louis is a bartender and Harry is a DJ in a club in Barcelona. All they really need to do is get their shit together. Of course, that's not what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ache To Know The Song He Sung

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Star_Henderson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Henderson/gifts).



> So. Here we are, with something that I can only describe as entirely self-indulgent. This one is for [Star_Henderson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Henderson/pseuds/Star_Henderson). I hope it's what you wanted, despite me changing up the prompt a bit.
> 
> This fic would never have come to be if it weren't for [Alice](http://intenselouis.tumblr.com), who basically came up with this entire thing and forced me to write it as we were fucking around on Skype. All the utterly ridiculous shit that features in this is your fault, I hope you realise as much.
> 
> Big, big thanks to [Heidi](http://infinitelymint.tumblr.com) for betaing this for me on such short notice and pointing out the shit that wasn't even English in the first place (sorry for those monstrosities that I called sentences). I would have never seen any of that, you're a champ. <3 
> 
> Also, sending a lot of hugs to the other [Alice](http://alicedoesntsharefood.tumblr.com) for cheering me on and telling me to "keep writing, Harry is about to come" when I started fucking around on Tumblr, and the same goes to [Eline](http://ivegotfirefouraheart.tumblr.com), who listened to me whine about this fic the entire time I was supposed to write it.
> 
> Oh, the title is from the song Barcelona by George Ezra, because it fit. Deal with it.
> 
> Enough talking... On to the fic. Enjoy!

Funky Payno’s on Saturday night has been an overcrowded mess for as long as Louis can remember. Tonight is no different.

Rihanna’s _Umbrella_ is blasting in his eardrums, there’s a fairly attractive guy without a shirt on waiting at his left, and Louis is stuck behind a bar, pouring shots to the people in need. To be fair, they probably shouldn’t drink any more than they’ve already chugged down if they want to keep their livers intact, but that’s not Louis’ problem, is it? He’s their bartender, not their doting mum. If anything, Niall or Liam will take care of that particular problem if it gets out of hand. Louis is here to serve, not to be a bloody babysitter.

Truly, life could be a lot worse than it is right now. Getting paid to work in Liam’s club in Barcelona isn’t exactly the worst thing he’s ever had to do so far. As it’s right in La Rambla, there are always new faces and new tourists to spot (and overcharge, sometimes). No early morning shifts, no boring nine-to-five office jobs, and a boss who gives him permission to drink at work. Not too shabby, and exactly up Louis’ alley. Especially if there are hot, scantily clad men to ogle every night.

As he looks at said men, Louis shimmies his hips, moving to grab a bottle of Jack Daniels. He can't help himself, humming how when the sun shines, they’ll shine together, and pours the lad in front of him a shot that he really shouldn’t take, if the look on his friend’s face next to him is anything to go by. Louis makes a face, nodding at him in sympathy, before he moves on to the next one.

The song changes, from _Umbrella_ to some dubstep remix that everybody in the crowd seems to love, but Louis has never heard of. Back to regular business it is, then. His hands move to the tap, expertly pouring a pint for the blonde guy in front of him, still humming Rihanna under his breath as a way of focusing himself.

See, the thing is – the guy who dares to call himself the DJ does that, sometimes, throws in a random pop song that Louis will have to fight himself over to not belt out at the top of his lungs. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t thankful for it. There’s only so much techno and dubstep a person can take before it feels like their eardrums are going to explode out of their skull.

Actually, he’s pretty sure that the DJ – Harry, his name is – does it all for him, to make his shift just that tiny bit more pleasant to get through.

He spares a look at the turntable, notes how Harry’s curls are flattened down by the enormous headphones he’s wearing. Louis can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the scene, watching how his hair falls into his eyes as he bends over the table to get another record from below. It’s a sight he’s used to seeing, but for some reason can never get enough of, focus trained on the stage as everybody’s center of gravity.

As if he can tell that Louis is looking at him, Harry looks up, locking his eyes with Louis so intensely that a fire burns in his stomach, so bright and hot that Louis almost doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

Almost.

He throws a wink at Harry, knowing that despite their sizable distance, Harry will notice, and shimmies over to Zayn behind the bar. Even though the man in question shouldn’t even be allowed to be standing there, since, technically, Zayn doesn’t even _work_ here.

The only reason he’s in this club is because he’s Louis’ flat mate, and Louis can’t be arsed to say anything about it. Louis has more pressing matters of the mind at the moment.

He ignores his customers in order to throw an arm around Zayn’s neck and smack a kiss against his cheek. To his credit, Zayn doesn’t pull away, in fact, he barely even flinches. Instead, he eases a hand around Louis’ waist, lazy but solid against his skin.

“What do you want?” Zayn sighs.

“Do us a favour and pretend that you want to shag me,” Louis orders, nodding his head towards the direction of the stage, where Harry has now managed to change the atmosphere of the club by playing some sensual R&B song that sounds suspiciously alike to the _Ignition_ remix. The crowd goes wild over it, and Harry knows it, a smirk making way to his face that Louis wants to slap off immediately.

Not as much as he wants to slap the people that are crowding around the turntable and making eyes at Harry, but alas. Whether it’s Harry or all the people standing here, his hands are aching to non-seriously maim somebody, getting rid of the tension that he can feel in his muscles, a tenseness that he can never seem to get rid of lately. He’s pretty sure it must show on his face as well, a creepy serial killer stare etched across his features, but if it gets Harry’s attention, it’s worth it.

He might be a tad obsessed. It’s fine.

“All the R. Kelly in the world wouldn’t make me want to shag you,” Zayn says grumpily. His expression turns earnest, frowning down at Louis as he adds, “So. When are you pulling your head out of your arse so _he_ can start shagging it instead?”

“Excuse you,” Louis gasps, untangling himself from Zayn’s grip. He takes a step back, just so he’s sure that Zayn can see the death glare he’s sending his way since, obviously, this just won’t _do._

“Zayn. Zaynie. _Zed._ Tell me,” he starts, cocking his hip as he leans back against the bar, “since when do I pine over a _boy_?”

“Since Harry Styles, apparently,” Zayn points out, and sure, he’s not wrong, but Louis has a point to make, damn it.

“Alright, then riddle me this. Do I make grown men cry, or do I let them trick me into making the first move?”

“You never make the first move.”

“Exactly. You _get_ me,” Louis triumphantly exclaims, “Though saying that I make grown men cry wouldn’t kill you, y’know. Wouldn’t it be refreshing to tell the truth for once?”

He’s leveled with an unimpressed stare on Zayn’s behalf. They turn back to the increasingly irritated crowd, all impatiently waiting for their orders to be taken.

“Have you ever reduced _me_ to a sobbing mess?” Zayn answers finally. The tone in his voice suggests that he’s entirely done with the direction this conversation is taking. 

Louis opens his mouth to imply that Zayn really isn’t a _grown_ man at all, thank you very much, but is interrupted by Liam turning up at the bar, shoving people out of the way so he can take a seat.

Fair enough. It’s his club, after all.

“Fuck,” Liam groans, and somehow, like clockwork, there’s a shot in front of him that Louis _definitely_ hasn’t put there.

“What is it?” he asks before Zayn can open his mouth and do more damage than he’s already caused by providing Liam with alcohol.

“I invited this bird a few days ago, right?” Liam says miserably. He downs the shot in one go, visibly suppressing a tiny shiver as it slides down his throat. “And she shows up tonight, Niall lets her in, texts me that she’s come over – ”

“Do you and Niall even realise that this is a gay club?” Louis interrupts him, “‘s not a place for the straights to hook up, that’s the whole _point_. You have the whole rest of Barcelona to do that.”

“Let the man be, he’s telling a story,” Zayn shushes him, because Zayn is a traitor and always picks Liam’s side. Right.

“Thanks,” Liam nods at Zayn. "So I go in, try to find her, and what’s the first bloody thing I see?”

He falls silent dramatically, looking at the two men behind the bar, hoping that they’ll somehow know what kind of tragedy has fallen upon him. Louis is, however, not a mind reader. He’s going to need a bit more information than that.

“Out with it, Liam,” he prods. Next to him, he can see the lines of Zayn’s shoulders tense in anticipation.

“The first thing I see when I find her, is her necking on with her gigantic boyfriend that she’s brought with. _Fuck me._ ”

“Ah. That sucks, mate,” Zayn grits out. He's visibly holding himself back from whatever else he was trying to say. Liam looks up, a frown between his bushy eyebrows, and stares at Zayn as if he’s trying to figure something out.

“Yeah, tough luck. But there’ll be other girls, Li,” Louis tacks on in an attempt to make the whole thing feel a bit more sympathetic, but it doesn’t seem to appease Liam the way it’s supposed to.

“Sure, there will be,” he says doubtfully. Louis doesn’t miss the quick glance Liam throws at Zayn before he stands up and ruefully announces, “I guess I’ll try to pull someone else, then. Night, lads!”

He leaves the two of them to fend for themselves again. It’s not exactly the way a club owner should go about, not really, but they let it slide. It’s not like anything they do goes the exact way regulations state they should.

Louis and Zayn silently get back to work. Their self-imposed non-speaking terms make them a thousand times more efficient than they’ve been in hours, handing off drink after drink as the night progresses. Louis doesn't spare a single glance at Harry that lasts longer than a millisecond, while Zayn avoids looking at the dance floor altogether. As he resolutely averts his gaze, his face resembles a thunderstorm. It doesn't look nearly as murderous as Louis’ death glare from earlier that evening did, but still, an emotional storm is definitely going on inside of him right at that second.

In fact, Louis is quite sure that Zayn’s going to have a sob about all of this when they get home to their flat. If he were a lesser man, he’d have made a comment about how _Liam_ definitely has been able to make Zayn cry, but Louis promises himself that he’ll refrain this time around.

He has plotting to do, plans that _will_ make sure Harry Styles is going to be the one who gives in first to whatever it is that has steadily been growing between the two of them. He’ll make it happen. Eventually.

~*~

Ogling hot men is a part of his job that Louis thoroughly enjoys. That is, if the ogling hadn’t been reduced to a bare minimum the second Harry Styles set foot into Funky Payno and ruined every other man for Louis, ever.

He’s not going to give in, though. He can repeat it time after time after time, but Louis Tomlinson does not make the first move when it comes to pulling. He’s made grown men fall at his feet with a single look, and though he hasn’t done it to Harry quite yet, he knows he will... eventually. He just has to step up his game a bit.

As if he could hear Louis’ thoughts from across the floor, Harry appears out of nowhere in front of the bar, right before Louis’ own eyes.

“Hey,” Harry heaves out and plops himself down onto a bar stool as he scoots as close to Louis as he possibly can.

The night has slowly come to an end, men and women alike making themselves scarce steadily after Harry has played the last song and let the music fade out. He always ends with _Goodbye My Lover._ It’s cheesy, annoying at best, and Louis truly can not stand James Blunt, but despite all that, it makes him smile every time.

It’s a true testament to how obsessed he’s become with Harry over the course of the summer. As is the way his breath hitches at the sight of Harry in front of him, sweaty and wiped out after a night in the DJ booth. His hair clings to his face, matted down and damp with sweat, and for some reason that Louis is not willing to look into yet, his hands are aching to reach out and touch it, hold it between his fingers as they –

Nope. Not going there. Not tonight.

“Tell me, what can I get you?” he says, mostly to distract himself from his traitorous brain.

“A drink,” Harry says with a smirk that should honestly be illegal. Louis rolls his eyes, choosing to not even dignify that with a response. Harry truly does not deserve the satisfaction of winning that one.

“A pint? Glass of red? A mix of everything I have? What is it you want?” He stares him down, as if he can force a _‘You’_ from between Harry’s lips and into the air, just to make the word tangible, to make the tension between them something that doesn’t merely exist in the miracles of Louis’ imagination.

“Hit me with your best shot,” Harry shrugs. He’s trying to be aloof, but Louis is not fooled. He can see the twinkle in his eye, can practically feel the pleasure he must be enjoying while thinking that he’s _so_ clever with his pun. Louis’ gaze slides down critically, training itself on Harry’s ridiculous bright pink shirt, eyes following the white polka dots splattered all across the fabric.

“Alright, Pat Benatar, I assume you're the fruity type of guy? The one who drinks shit with umbrellas on top?” he asks eventually. Harry solemnly nods.

“Doesn’t fit the whole DJ thing you have going on, does it?” Louis asks critically.

“Does it look like I’m bothered?” Harry counters. And well, no. It doesn’t. Harry looks like he does what he wants, when he wants it, a man who has grown to be confident in his own skin and has learned how to not care what others perceive him as.

Contrary to Louis, he hasn’t allowed the world to make him cynical, thrives on the attention, in fact. He’s everything Louis wishes he could be and everything he never will achieve. It’s why Louis wants to die every time Harry even so much as comes close to him. It’s like being around the actual bloody sun, the way he’s lighting up everybody in a room and making them feel hot all over.

Or that could just be Louis’ experience. Either way, he’s afraid to get burned, afraid to fly too close and burn his fingertips against Harry’s skin if he acts too fast. You don’t burn yourself on the sun, after all – the sun burns up itself from the inside out and takes you down with it instead, and Louis is _this_ close to being overshadowed in the total solar eclipse that will be Harry Styles.

If Louis had any sense of self-preservation, he’d step away now, but, as it is, he’s never been known for his great decision-making skills.

“It’s been a long night, Louis. Just make me something,” Harry sighs. “I’m not bothered no matter what you choose to go with.”

“Not even if I hand you something glittery and pink that will offend your precious masculinity?” Louis asks with a raised eyebrow. His hand grabs the first bottle he sees and he looks at the label in earnest, until he realises that scotch probably won’t do the trick for what he has in mind.

“This is a gay club, innit? I’d be offended if you gave me anything else.” And that’s, well. Another point in Harry’s favour. He’s tipping the scale unfairly, and he’s going to pay for it by getting a drink so sweet and strong that his teeth will suffer greatly. Serves them right for being so perfectly lined up and shining so brightly that Louis can’t even blink, staring at them until he’s almost blinded by the sight.

Shit. He is in so fucking deep that he’s losing it over _teeth._

“You’re getting one I’ve never made before,” Louis informs him as he reaches for the rum. Harry visibly perks up at that, eyes shining a bit brighter than they did seconds ago, and _Louis_ did that, made Harry feel better when all he probably wants is to sleep for twelve hours straight. Louis can think of a few other ways that might help Harry relax. Later.

“Is it going to be named after me?” Harry grins. The look on his face suggests that it would be the greatest achievement he’s ever going to accomplish, which, _no._ The greatest thing Harry is ever going to achieve is Louis, if he has any say in it.

“And have all these gay men asking for a Harry Styles? That’s not asking for trouble, that’s inviting trouble over to your flat and shagging it in the arse,” Louis protests. Harry frowns, crossing his arms in blatant disappointment.

“What is it called, then?” he asks wearily as Louis grabs the banana syrup, “A banana colada?”

“Please,” Louis huffs. “I didn’t get this job by being a boring twat. Also, what the fuck? How do you know there’s banana in this?”

“It says so on the label,” Harry smirks as he points at the bottle, and well, shit, it does, “And, um. Didn’t you get this job because you’re friends with Liam?”

“So did you, wanker.”

As retribution, Louis does end up pouring a bit of scotch into the mix before adding some sugar to make up for it. All it will do is ensure that Harry’s going to have to crawl home after this. It’s good that the club has emptied out by now, because if any of the regular clubgoers saw Harry drunk off his arse, it would make the rounds until somebody took advantage of it, and Louis won’t have that. Not when he has plans to follow through on.

“How about a Banana Bender?” Harry muses, and honestly – this is why Louis is the one behind the bar being inventive with his cocktail creations instead of Harry. If Harry so much as tried, he’d get fired within half an hour – either for his god awful drinks, or for causing a ruckus at the bar just by being himself. Both options are highly plausible.

“For fuck’s sake, if we go for Banana Benders you might as well call it ‘The boner must go on’. Banana Benders. Christ.”

Harry doesn’t pout, but he does run a hand through his hair, his face scrunching up in a way that Louis knows means something is coming. It’s the face he gets when he’s throwing together a new mix on his laptop before the club opens, complete concentration and utter, full focus. It’s the face that makes Louis want to sink to his knees and see if Harry’s banana really does bend, or if it was just the moment that called for it.

“Alright, so say I wanted a martini,” Harry starts slowly, “Shaken, not stirred, yeah? What would you call that?”

Louis doesn’t groan out loud, but he’s not far from doing so. Instead, he gets a fresh banana, slicing it with more force than is strictly necessary.

“That would be a 007,” he says. His eyes don’t leave the banana, afraid to see what he would find on Harry’s face.

“Really? That's unoriginal.”

Louis doesn’t have to look at Harry to know that he’s raising his eyebrows, expecting more of Louis than he’d just been given. Of course, that’s not the end of it. His desire might be pretty straightforward at the moment, but never let it be said that Louis Tomlinson is a simple man.

“Is it?” Louis asks breezily, “Because I’d like to see his 00’s as well as his 7.”

It’s silent for a few seconds. Louis can’t resist looking up this time, only to find Harry staring at him in disbelief.

“I can't believe you just stole that from Friends _,_ ” he says eventually. Louis’ heart skips a beat with the realisation that Harry _got_ that, that he knew what he was talking about right away. Fuck, he might be falling in love.

“I can't believe _you_ just called me out on that reference. Hides behind a confident DJ exterior, is secretly a giant nerd at heart. You just exposed yourself, Styles,” he quips in an attempt to mask the rapid beating of his heart.

One of these days he’s actually going to go into cardiac arrest, and Liam will have to find himself a new bartender. Maybe Zayn can finally get a contract signed - at least that way, his death will be good for something.

“Sure,” Harry shrugs easily. “Are you Monica, then? With your love for all things seven?”

“You did _not_ just – ” he starts, then promptly shuts his mouth as the door to the club smashes open with a bang.

In comes Niall, his face attached to a girl of whom they can only distinguish bright red hair. They slam against a wall, hands roaming everywhere. Louis really does not want to see any of this.

He grabs five mini umbrellas, picking out the pinkest of them all, and sticks them in the slice of banana he expertly balances on the edge of the glass. He tops it off with the glitteriest straw he can find, dramatically dropping it into the cocktail.

“Here,” he says calmly, handing Harry his drink, “a Hisho Fine for one Harry Styles.”

It’s obvious and childish and not at all his best work, but he’s slowly withering away from the inside, the burning in his stomach getting worse with every word they speak to each other. _Something_ needs to happen – he’s trying to kick-start a chain of events that he’s been waiting for to get into motion for weeks now. It’s not his fault that he keeps failing every time. Harry just needs a bigger push, apparently, and this should be it.

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, he’s wrong about that. Again.

“Thanks.” Harry simply smiles at him brightly, apparently ignoring the blatant come-on. He takes a sip of his drink and shudders against the taste of it. Possibly, the cocktail is a lot stronger than the stuff Harry normally drinks.

A moan echoes from the corner of the club, Niall and the redhead shuffling into the DJ booth. How Niall manages to pull when he’s the bouncer of a gay club, Louis will never understand, but it happens once a week at _least._ It would be impressive if he wasn’t so disgusted by it, being more intimately acquainted with Niall’s sex sounds than he ever wished he would be.

He’s trying to ignore the situation, but it’s getting more difficult by the second – when the two are crashing against the back wall of the booth, it’s becoming kind of impossible to pretend he's not seeing any of it.

“Jesus,” Louis groans. He grabs Harry’s glass, knocking back a quarter of it in one swig. It doesn’t taste bad, a bit stronger than he was initially going for, but sweet all the same. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, he thinks hazily. Too bad he can’t hear himself think over the noise of Niall and his lady friend.

“What about Niall? What would his drink be?” Harry muses, reclaiming his glass and taking a big gulp of his drink this time. He seems looser, wound less tight.

Louis thinks for a second, then smirks proudly.

“A special kind of Irish lager, that I’d like to call Orgasm De-Niall,” he deadpans.

“Oh?” Harry asks innocently, sucking on his straw, “Is that something you’re into?”

Good _lord._ Something stirs in Louis’ pants, his insides clutched in Harry’s non-existent grip. When did this conversation get so out of hand? When did it escalate to such disastrous proportions?

“I’m not,” Louis lies, “but Neil really should be, judging by how fast they’re going.”

The laugh Harry lets out at that is loud and ugly and more a guffaw than anything else. It’s not hot or attractive at all, or at least it shouldn’t be, but Louis just wants him more now, wants this incredibly gorgeous man with the ugly laugh and secret nerd personality in his bed and see what other secrets he can coax out of him while they’re at it.

The sound of clothes falling to the floor reaches Louis’ ears. It’s enough for him to decide that he’s done. He knocks back Harry’s drink and ushers him out of the room, ordering him to go home. Tonight is not the night. Even Louis is not that desperate, not when he’s this close to hearing what Niall Horan sounds like when he comes.

~*~

It all gets progressively worse from there on out. Harry has taken to playing blatant sex songs and staring at Louis during all of them, but nothing _really_ happens. Nothing of substance, nothing that makes him snap and take Louis the way they both know he wants to. It’s driving him absolutely insane, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Additionally, nothing he tries his hand at actually works. In fact, it’s Harry who seems to have control of the situation at the moment, and Louis doesn’t like it one bit.

When Harry plays _Pony_ and simultaneously puts his hair up in a bun, exposing the lines of his neck, Louis nearly combusts on the spot. Zayn watches it all happen, laughing hysterically at the redness of Louis’ face. He promptly stops laughing when Liam walks in with Niall’s girl from the other week on one side and a brunette friend that’s practically hanging off his shoulders on the other, looking at Liam with hearts in her eyes.

Zayn is useless the rest of the night, and when Niall appears out of nowhere and tugs the redhead away from Liam, the rubber band inside Louis’ stomach snaps, having been pulled too far to be able to stretch any further.

“Enough,” he yells when the club has emptied out and it’s only the five of them left, homemade cocktails courtesy of Louis in front of all of them, “I call for a meeting. _Now.”_

“Is this about your absolute shit music taste?” Harry smirks as he approaches the bar. “You should know that nobody actually enjoys Katy Perry, apart from you.”

“Then why do you keep playing it?” Liam frowns. Harry immediately shuts up at that.

Louis has to bite back a grin, trying to focus on the task at hand. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but it kind of does, doesn’t it? His earlier suspicion that Harry does it for him has just been confirmed. There’s something in the air and Louis isn’t crazy, after all.

Well, he is, but not when it comes to this at least.

“If it’s not about the music, what is it?” Harry quickly deflects, and oh. Right.

“Yeh, can we hurry this along? Roxy is waiting right outside,” Niall chips in. For some mysterious reason, his hair is a disheveled mess already, even though Louis hasn’t actually seen him fool around with her yet.

“About that,” Louis says, clearing his throat, “Can you, and Liam for that matter, quit bringing girls inside? We get it, you’re straight, you made your bloody point.”

Harry has to stifle a giggle at that. Louis shoots him a warning look in response. This is a serious matter; they can’t afford to ruin it by laughing it off.

“What? Me? I haven’t shagged anyone in here,” Liam squeaks, nervously looking at Zayn as he tugs on the collar of his polo. In any other situation, Louis would probably interfere, but he absolutely does not have the patience to deal with any of their drama right now.

“It’s not even about shagging, can’t you just quit bringing in birds for a while?” he sighs, exasperated.

“Aw, Tommo, is somebody jealous they’re not getting laid on the reg?” Niall grins filthily. If Louis wasn’t sure that Niall would win the fight with his dirty bouncer tricks, he’d have thrown a punch a long time ago. As it is, he bares his teeth at Niall in a snarl – it’s the most he can get away with for now.

“Excuse you, I can get anyone I want,” Louis says, pointedly throwing a look at Harry, “but it’s not about that. This is a _work_ place.”

“You’re not the boss of this place though,” Zayn says quietly, “Liam is. He can do what he wants.”

“Oh, piss off, Malik. You _still_ do not even work here. You don’t get a say,” Louis dismisses him, because living in Liam’s arse revokes any kind of voting rights in this situation.

“You don’t work here?” Harry asks, suddenly interested. Zayn shrugs non-committedly, basically answering nothing at all.

“Hey,” Liam intervenes, throwing Louis a dirty look, “If Zayn wants a say, he gets a say.”

“Nialler?” Louis tries desperately.  

“I’m on Liam with this one, Tommo. Sorry. Maybe Harry will kiss your sorry arse, if you ask nicely,” Niall shrugs. Without waiting for Louis to make a comeback, he spins on his heels and disappears from sight, presumably to go and get his fix after all.

Louis is torn between looking at Harry with pleading eyes but risking that Harry might think he really _is_ asking nicely, and pushing Liam and Zayn together in a forceful kiss.

Neither of those things end up happening. After he has cleaned up the bar and has made sure that all the bottles are safely closed and stashed away, he goes home alone and refuses to cry about it in Zayn’s arms. He has more dignity than that. For now, at least.

_~*~_

Before he goes into work on Friday night, Louis takes a stroll down El Raval, deciding that he needs to clear his head a bit and enjoy where he actually lives for once. As it turns out, trying to be cultured and visiting a museum doesn’t quite do the trick. He’s not Zayn, after all.

As soon as he does walk into Payno’s, it becomes abundantly clear that he is not the only one who has decided he needs to go the extra mile in order to get laid.

Completely contrasting against everything that Louis knows Zayn to be, he is early, standing behind the bar and effortlessly cleaning the bar with a grace that Louis will never be able to make his own.  It’s the haircut that does it, though, the defining thing that would make Louis want to suck his dick right away, weren’t it for the fact that Zayn feels more like a brother to him than anything else. Despite his love for watching Game of Thrones, he still does not support incest.

Zayn’s hair is shaved off on the left side of his head, an artfully styled asymmetrical undercut that contrasts beautifully with the longer fringe he’s kept. He’s dressed in a black shirt that looks like he has transformed it into a tank top himself, a blatant message that screams _I cut my own sleeves, bitch,_ and it’s kind of… Well. He looks like sex on legs, if Louis is being honest, and nobody, not even Liam Payne, is straight enough to be able to resist that.

Louis himself is physically incapable of looking away from Zayn even if he wanted to, which he’s apparently not alone in; Niall has abandoned his station at the door in order to stare at Zayn, slack-jawed, and Harry, to Louis’ dismay, isn’t subtle in the slightest either. He’s steadily sneaking glances at Zayn from his place at the DJ booth every time he thinks Louis isn’t looking, sometimes forgoing a blink entirely.

Liam’s reaction, however, tops them all. He appears from the supply closet at the back, holding a crater filled with liquor. His gaze is trained on the crater at first, mentally counting the bottles as he’s wont to do, but when he finally does look up and spots Zayn, he freezes.

What happens next is beautiful.

In true, completely shocked Liam Payne fashion, his grip on the edges of the crater slips and falls to the ground. The sound of shattering glass fills their ears, but Liam doesn’t even look at the mix of liquor and glass on the ground, doesn’t seem to smell the overwhelming stench of alcohol filling the air. Instead, he keeps staring at Zayn, a flush making way to his face, hands shaking by his sides. Zayn quirks an eyebrow at Liam, gesturing at the ground.

“You gonna clean that up, boss, or what?” he asks simply and goes back to work without sparing Liam a single second glance. Louis has never been prouder of him in his entire life.

The rest of the night goes similarly. Liam keeps dropping things, unable to concentrate on any task at hand. It’s a bit of a disaster, actually, but the plus side is that he hasn’t looked or talked to any girl whatsoever, even though Niall has, predictably, let in a sling of gorgeous, undeniably straight girls steadily as the night progresses.

Hours later, Harry is still following Zayn’s every move with his eyes, playing increasingly filthy songs every time Zayn brushes past Liam to grab a bottle from the shelf. Louis normally isn’t a jealous man, he tells himself, but the fact remains that Harry should be inspired to play sex songs because of _Louis_ instead of Zayn’s epic quest to get into Liam’s pants.

He decides it’s time to do something about it. Since Louis is supposed to be the only bartender anyway, and Zayn clearly has this under control, he can take some much-needed time off, he thinks.

He hands the two girls in front of him their drinks, smiling to himself as they press their lips together in a sweet kiss before disappearing into the crowd again. Shaking his head, he makes way to Zayn, who’s crowded by people trying to beg him to come with for a dance. There’s a guy that writes his phone number on a coaster and slides it over to him, but Zayn doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with attempting to control the tap and keeping count of the euro bills he’s getting in the meantime.

“Malik,” Louis starts, elbowing Zayn in the side, “I’m off to the floor for a bit, yeah? You got this?”

“Sure,” Zayn shrugs. He might try to come across as if he has no care in the world, but Louis doesn’t miss the way his eyes flit to Liam in his office, a plan forming in his head. Louis wishes he could stay to watch this play out, but he has other business to attend to.

Louis makes his way to the dance floor, pushing himself through the throng of people, and catches Harry’s gaze. He throws him a wink, and as luck will have it, the song fades out, changing from The Weeknd into _Hips Don’t Lie_. It’s probably not on purpose, though the transition between the two songs makes absolutely no sense and is nothing like what Liam makes Harry play on a regular evening, but Louis is not going to complain. It’s perfect for what he has in mind.

He dances on his own for a bit, testing out the waters. Going into this sober was probably not the smartest thing he’s ever done, but Christ, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Closing his eyes, he moves along to the beat and lets Shakira’s voice wash him away for a bit, nothing mattering except for him, the music and the crowd of people who brush against him with every move. It’s the rhythmic movements of their hips, the knowledge that he could have any of these people if he wanted to, while Harry is watching him at that very second, that makes him finally loosen up, muscles relaxing. 

For someone who works in a club, he doesn’t make use of the dance floor nearly enough, even though this is where his mind is finally clear, when he’s completely in his element and can _actually_ let himself unwind. He knows he has eyes on him from every corner, knows the effect he has on men, and basks in it, swinging his hips just a bit more filthily as he goes.

He revels in the attention, is the thing, likes to feel loose and languid in his own skin, and since the only other thing that makes him feel this sexy is actually getting fucked into a bed, dancing his heart out while everybody around him is getting shitfaced is the only real other solution that won’t make him feel like a slag.

The song changes to _Sexyback,_ the bass thrumming through his entire body as he circles his hips from side to side. When he opens his eyes, he sees an outrageously handsome man staring at him, the man’s brown hair styled into a nice quiff. He has a perfectly sculpted jawline, dusted with just the right amount of hair. His face looks familiar, but Louis can’t quite place him. He mentally shrugs, because well, why not? 

He throws a wink at the man in question and gets a smirk in response before he inches over and the man is suddenly in front of him, hips moving in time with his own.

“Hi,” he mouths, and Louis grins back, because suddenly he realises why his dancing partner looks so familiar. A few weeks back, Harry had told Louis tiredly that he couldn’t wait to go home and watch a show Louis had never heard of. As soon as he had left, Louis had looked it up on his phone. The face that he was first confronted with is the very same that’s smirking at him now, an expectant look shining in his eyes.

It honestly could not have worked out any better if Louis had actually planned this all out in advance. In fact, the surprise of it makes a thrill surge up his spine, ideas forming in his head that can’t end in anything but Harry burning with white-hot jealousy behind his table. Whether it’s of him or of his dance partner really does not matter in this case - fucking with Harry’s mind is the only goal of the night, and he’s going to _succeed._

“Evening,” Louis purrs, inching closer to Jack Falahee until their hips touch. He pointedly does not look at Harry, though surely he must have noticed by now, and slings an arm around Jack’s neck so their chests meet as well.

They don’t talk. Louis doesn’t introduce himself, and neither does Jack. He doesn’t ask why Jack’s here, what he’s doing in Barcelona of all places when last he read he was supposed to be filming for a movie, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. Jack has eyes that Louis could get lost in, the music is fantastic, and he’s finally getting some skin to skin contact he’s been craving for weeks on end now.

He mouths along to the song quietly, sliding his hand down Jack’s chest slowly as Justin Timberlake slurs something about misbehaving. For a split second, a thought flickers in his head, the idea that he could go home with god damn _Jack Falahee_ and blow off some much needed steam after all.

A pair of hands turns him around then, his arse pressing against Jack’s crotch, and as it happens, the change in position gives Louis a perfect view of Harry on the stage. He looks positively murderous, and even though it’s exactly what Louis wanted, his heart drops to his stomach.

Suddenly, it becomes painfully clear that going home with Jack Falahee is not on the cards for the night. Not when there’s a Harry Styles in his life, who he would like to take home so bad that he can’t even enjoy this grinding session anymore.

He doesn’t have to, saved by the bell, or the music, as it is, because the song changes to some kind of deep house mix that even Louis couldn’t grind to if he tried. He turns around, smiling at Jack apologetically.

“So that’s it?” Jack asks, but he doesn’t seem disappointed. In fact, he looks vaguely amused, as if he knows exactly what’s going on. He might. Louis doesn’t know how often he has visited already or how much he has seen, after all. He’s been doing a piss poor job of hiding his attraction to Harry as it is.

“I’m gonna go wee,” Louis announces simply and leaves the dance floor, but instead of heading to the loos, he walks up to the DJ booth and opens the door with the spare key he has in his pocket.

Harry is resolutely staring at his sound panel, focusing on his fingers on the buttons instead of Louis crowding into his space.

“Did you see who’s here?” Louis stage whispers into Harry’s ear. Even through his headphones, he can tell that Harry can still make out his voice, feels how tense the muscles in his back are against Louis’ chest.

“How could I not when you were flaunting it right in front of me?” Harry bites back stiffly.

“Wasn’t that good, love,” Louis assures him softly and then, in a brave move, strokes a hand through Harry’s hair in a soft, simple gesture.

Harry doesn’t verbally respond, but his body relaxes into Louis’ touch, and this, this is what he does it for, the way Harry’s body instantly responses to whatever Louis is willing to give him, the way Harry offers himself up completely with no barricades guarding his reactions.

Louis is so lost in the moment that he doesn’t notice James Blunt’s wailing voice filling the room. As it is, the lights go on, the sound fades out and suddenly, their night has come to an end. Seemingly out of nowhere, Harry gathers his gear together into his bag and slides his hands through his hair, making quick work of his fingers and throwing his hair together into a bun again.

It promptly gets Louis harder than any grinding session with whichever famous actor ever could.

Harry moves to the door, opening the booth for Louis so they can both get out and head back towards the bar for the closing drink of the night that has unofficially become tradition at this point. Louis is going to have to deal with his erection for the duration of the remaining evening, but he’s willing to suffer through it if it means getting to spend another stolen moment with Harry and stashing it away in his collection of his favourite memories.

Instead of sitting down at a stool, however, Harry moves to the exit, hauling his bag onto his shoulder.

“You’re not staying for a drink?” Louis asks after him, astounded. Disappointment settles in his gut, deeper than he’d like, unconsciously having thought that they’d finally _gotten_ somewhere.

Harry looks at him with a grin that basically screams revenge and makes shivers trail up Louis’ back. To make matters worse, he waits until Louis catches up with him before leaning in. He lets his lips brush against Louis’, a barely there, feather light touch that has Louis begging for more, making him want to reach out and drag Harry against him until space is a concept that doesn’t exist.

Instead of turning it into a proper kiss, however, Harry pulls back and says gleefully, “Sorry, gotta jet. I’ve got a hot date with my bed,” and disappears from the bar, crossing the brightly lit room to the exit.

Louis can’t move, stands there in stunned silence. He looks at Niall for support.

“Tough luck, mate,” Niall shrugs apologetically. Which is absolutely no help at all. He needs support, needs someone to keep him standing in these times of turmoil, but of course the only person who could get him out of this mindset would be Harry. He’s properly, absolutely fucked.

When Louis gets home and notes Zayn isn’t home yet, probably trying to see if the art centre on La Rambla is open at night, he doesn’t even make it to the bed, sinking to his knees as soon as the door closes behind him.

He shoves a hand into his pants, wrapping a desperate hand around his dick, and it doesn’t even take a minute before he comes with Harry’s name on his lips, thoughts of pushing him to his knees and holding him up by that bloody bun swirling through his mind. As he swipes his shirt across the mess on his stomach, he gets up and drags himself to his bed. With his shorts still halfway pushed down his legs, he feels more pathetic than he has ever done in his entire life.

He’s just had a wank in his hallway over Harry putting his hair in a bun. It’s probably the lowest he’s ever sunk.

_~*~_

Louis twirls in front of the mirror, staring at the fabric of his shirt and tugging on the bottom unsurely.

His stomach is more exposed than he’s used to, the white fabric of his crop top just ending above his navel, sleeves rolled up around his biceps. It’s the most daring outfit he has in his closet, and it’s going to have to do for tonight. Still, he can’t help but admire himself in the mirror for a bit, the sight of himself unfamiliar. A teasing glimpse of black lace peeps out from the edge of his trousers, just enough for _somebody_ to lose their mind over, but not so much that it becomes obscene.

He honestly can’t try any harder than this. If this doesn’t do the trick, nothing will, and Louis will give up on his mission and admit himself to a monastery as soon as possible.

“Jesus, mate,” Zayn laughs as he walks into Louis’ room, staring at him with an amused grin curling his lips. “All hands on deck then, tonight?”

“It’s sink or sail,” Louis nods solemnly and turns away from the mirror, ruffling Zayn’s hair. It doesn't even mess it up, makes him look even better, if that’s possible at all, which is hugely unfair and quite frankly, unrealistic for anybody inhabiting this planet apart from Zayn Malik, apparently. He groans, giving up on life in general as it is, and grabs his phone from the bed. When he’s sure that Zayn’s not looking, he grabs a travel packet of lube and a condom from his bedside drawer and tucks it into his pocket discreetly.

“Let’s go fuck some shit up,” Louis announces confidently, even though he doesn’t feel nearly as optimistic as he sounds. 

In fact, he’s scared shitless that this is it, that after tonight, he’s going to have to give up on whatever it is that’s been steadily growing between the two of them. It’s his own deadline he’s set, he knows it is, but it feels like no matter what happens, _something_ is ending tonight and he doesn’t like it one bit. The whole thing feels weirdly nostalgic, as if everything about this has only been sweetness and roses, leaving nothing but glory in its wake. In reality, it’s nothing like he built it up in his head - the whole situation has been a giant chain of events that just led to a sexual frustration that burned so deep within him, Louis has been a ticking time bomb since the second he met Harry Styles.

Though that’s not all of it. Honesty is key, even when it’s in the privacy of his own mind, and this whole situation has been more than an insistent pulling in his pants, has been more than Louis’ dick telling him that he needs to get its tip wet. The pair of them instantly clicked, falling into a rhythm that he’s never had with anybody before. The way Louis is able to make Harry laugh is addictive, even more so than the way Harry shivers when Louis touches his skin. It’s the entire package, and it feels like too much, too soon, too fast for him as well as Harry.

Even though he’s telling himself that tonight’s the night, and it’s time to get closure one way or another, he really doesn’t feel ready to give up any of this. Feeling any sort of desire for anyone that isn’t Harry has become a foreign concept to him, and he doesn’t know when exactly that happened, but it’s ringing truer than anything has for him in ages.

When he and Zayn finally do get their arses over to the club, Harry is already there. His eyes practically bulge out of their sockets at the sight of Louis, but Louis, like Zayn had just a week ago, pretends he doesn’t notice a thing. It’s the fourth night in a week where Harry has stared at Louis with fire in his eyes, and it’s so intently burning this time that Louis can barely even stand the heat.

Despite all that, nothing really changes. Zayn still stares after Liam, Harry plays a few songs in Louis’ honour and Louis filthily knocks some shots back and flirts with guys that aren’t Harry, but his heart isn’t in it. The situation calls for drastic measures.

In an incredible twist of fate, a familiar face pops up at the bar, one he actually has the permission to talk to this time around. A grin makes way to his face as a plan pops into his head.

“Jack! You’re back!” Louis screams over the booming sound of the music. He scratches at the skin of his stomach unconsciously, thinking of all the things that he could be doing right now instead of accidentally making up a bloody _rhyme._ He should be a songwriter, really, though all he’d end up doing would be writing homages to the dimples in Harry’s cheeks, probably.

Maybe it’s not a missed career opportunity after all.

“I can’t remember telling you my name last time,” Jack Falahee shoots back, but the look on his face suggests he is not bothered in the slightest about Louis evidently knowing who he is.

“Does it matter?” Louis acquires. Jack shakes his head, that same amused smirk from the other night curling the corners of his lips. It makes it all the easier for Louis to put his ideas into motion, to give this night the big gesture that it deserves, even if it’s not exactly a romantic one.

He motions to Zayn to take his place at the bar, and climbs onto the countertop himself. The way his knickers ride up his shorts as he climbs up is obvious to Louis, let alone to Zayn and everyone else who’s paying the slightest bit of attention to what’s happening, but he can’t exactly say he minds.

Funky Payno isn’t the straightest place to be anyway. Surely they can handle a slip or two.

“Lads, listen up,” Louis shouts to the expectant crowd looking up at him, “Free shots for the first person who’s willing to pour a body shot off of yours truly!”

A volcano of horny-men-shouting erupts, overpowering the music for a short moment. Louis seizes the opportunity, thrusting his hips a bit into the general direction of the DJ booth. Harry shakes his head, but Louis can still see a smile make way to his face, as if he knows exactly what Louis is doing and he won’t fall for it.

The response is not exactly what Louis had been hoping for, but when the beginning notes of _Sex on Fire_ start blasting through the speakers, he decides that this is possibly maybe even better.

He scours the crowd of men, trying to make their way to the front of the bar, but the only person he’s willing to let close to him is already right where he wants him to be, staring up at him as if he knows exactly what he’s up to.

“Are you sure about this?” Jack shouts over the booming sound of the bass riff, an eyebrow quirked. He’s licking his lips, though, and Louis knows they’re doing this, knows that this is definitely happening.

He motions for Zayn to hand him a bottle of tequila, which he does - though his face while he does so could rival the lemon he’s holding in its sourness.

“Lou –” Zayn starts worriedly, but Louis takes the bottle from his hand and waves him off.

“Lay where you’re laying, don’t make a sound,” he sings along as he pointedly ignores Zayn’s last attempts at preventing him from executing a perfect plan. He plants himself on the bar, reaching down for his shirt so he can ruck it back up, until he remembers that his shirt barely even reaches his navel and there’s no need for such things.

“Come on then, Jack,” he purrs in the most seductive voice he can muster when he knows Harry’s eyes are burning holes into his very soul.

“On my way,” Jack smirks. He edges closer as Louis uncaps the bottle of tequila and pours some into his navel, shaking out some salt right where his knickers end. He gives Jack his best bedroom eyes as he puts the lemon part between his lips and wiggles his hips a bit.

While all the men around them cheer in what is a blatant act of voyeurism, Jack _fucking_ Falahee finally leans in and closes his lips over Louis’ stomach.

Louis wishes he could say he was sexy about it, wishes he could say he kept his composure, but there is one fatal flaw in his plan that he had overlooked – which is to say, he is the most ticklish person in the entire universe. He sputters around the lemon in his mouth, giggling against the shell as Jack licks out his navel and licks up the salt right above his groin. 

It should be the hottest thing in the universe, but instead Louis is struggling to keep the lemon between his lips as he tries to keep his squealing to a minimum.

When Jack finally does relieve Louis from his duties, he discards the lemon. Faster than Louis can blink, Jack inches forward and briefly closes his lips around Louis' own.

It’s not any longer than his encounter with Harry had been, and even though it should be better, with the perfect soundtrack blasting around them and Jack being a well-known actor and all, Louis feels _nothing._ Where with Harry he was aching for a single touch lasting just a second longer, now, he almost wishes it was over.

Naturally, when Jack does back off and pulls Louis upright, his first instinct is to glance over at the DJ booth.

In the place where Harry should be standing, Niall is behind the sound panel, looking slightly lost as he tries to navigate the buttons. Before Louis can process any of this, an unruly head of curls bundled up into a bun he would recognize anywhere pops up in his vision, rudely pushing Jack to the side.

It’s then that finally, _finally,_ something inside of Harry seems to break into pieces.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Harry snaps at Louis and hurries over to the edge of the bar. 

For a second, Louis worries that he cocked it all up, but then Harry has dragged Louis off the bar and onto the dance floor, roughly pulling him close until there’s no other direction to flee in.

They’re not really dancing, simply circling their hips against each other to maintain the illusion. The press of Harry’s body against his own is everything Louis ever wanted and nothing he expected it to feel like. It’s different, better, even, because it’s real and he can smell Harry, all sweat and Tom Ford and _anger._

“Well, you apparently weren’t up for the task,” Louis shrugs non-committedly while his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, “So I arranged someone else to cover for you.”

“Tosser, you could’ve just _asked,_ ” Harry swears, and, _oh._ That honestly had not occurred to Louis before. He’d been too engrossed in finding ways to drive Harry crazy, too wrapped up in coaxing him into making the first move, that asking had not even been an option.

He eyes the way Harry’s hand curls around his arm, Harry’s biceps flexing with the pressure they’re exerting to keep Louis in his place. The longer he stares, the harder he has to fight back the urge to sink his teeth into Harry’s upper arm. It’s not an instinct he’s ever had before, but then again, with Harry nothing ever is the same.

“I –” he gapes, but he doesn’t have to say anything else, interrupted by Harry’s loud groan. A firm mouth presses against his own, soft yet demanding against his lips, and he kisses back, going pliant into Harry’s grip.

The kiss is everything he’s been waiting for and daydreaming over for months now, and he stores every detail of it away for later, registers the taste of Harry’s lips against his own, the tiny breaths that Harry is letting out as he pulls Louis closer. Louis’ own hand moves up to Harry’s hair, _finally_ raking his hands through the bun. He sighs into Harry’s mouth at the feeling of it, at the realisation that he is finally where he’s wanted to be for ages now, kissing the boy that has steadily been trying to be the death of him.

Apparently, the grip Louis has on his hair is enough to make Harry go stiff, and the softness of the kiss abruptly fades, turning into something much more filthy. His mouth opens against Louis’ and he slides in his tongue, licking into him with an urgency that goes straight to Louis’ dick. His hands slide down to Louis’ arse, tickling his fingers over the edges of the lace, and Louis breaks apart from him with a loud gasp, arching into the motion with his neck thrown back.

“Let it be known,” Louis breathes out against the ceiling, “that I always get what I want.”

“Who bloody cares?” Harry says, wild-eyed. He pulls Louis off the dance floor by the hand and directs him to the bar, that is apparently now closed for whatever reason. He maneuvers Louis against the wall before dropping to his knees and gasping, “ _Shit_ , I need to see what you’re wearing.”

His hands move to Louis’ jeans, fingering across the edge of the black lace. His fingers trail over the skin of Louis’ hip bones, so light that the touch is barely there but enough to make Louis’ mouth water in anticipation. He wants so much, needs so much from Harry, and it’s been _so fucking long_ that just another second longer feels like an eternity away _._

Harry prolongs the infinite, dragging forever along with him into an abyss of impossibilities. He stares up at Louis with eyes that are filled with unadulterated want.

“Just the idea of you in those has been driving me insane all night. Please, let me see you, Lou.”

“ _You’ve_ been going insane? Christ, Haz, you drive me mad, d’you know that? Standing behind that turntable all cocky, knowing that you can manipulate the crowd with a single song. And don’t tell me you don’t revel in it, I’ve seen you,” he tacks on, sliding his hand over Harry’s cheek gently at first. The grip he gets on his jaw, however, is firm, forcing Harry to meet his groin full face. “It’s unfair, honestly.”

“You know what’s unfair? The way you revel in Jack Falahee’s tongue dipping into your navel. Dirty trick, that, Tomlinson.” His hands move down to the zipper, opening Louis’ jeans and revealing exactly what Louis has been showing off all night. His eyes widen more, even though Louis hadn’t thought it possible, and Harry leans in, a hungry expression on his face.

“It worked though, innit?” Louis says with a laugh. Harry mouths at his dick through the lace in answer, and even though Louis has built up the reputation that he _likes_ people watching him when he’s getting into it, he only really wants eyes following his every move if Harry is the audience in question. He’s not too keen to get busted with his trousers down his ankles, isn’t into the whole shame thing either. All he wants is to feel Harry inside of him so deep that he will still be able to feel it all the way into next week.

Not here, though. Not in a place where Niall has most likely defiled every possible surface he could find, if his latest conquests are anything to go by.

“Harry, stop,” he says and tries to put as much authority into his voice as possible. It doesn't exactly work out the way he wanted it to, Harry ignoring his demand and dipping his fingers into the waistband of his knickers.

“At least let me suck you off first,” Harry whines, licking his lips in anticipation at the mere thought of it.

“Not here,” Louis shakes his head as he pushes Harry away and zips up his jeans again, “I have an idea, though.”

Harry lets himself be pulled up, his grip on Louis’ fingers tight like a vice. Louis leads them over to the supply closet, thinking that they’ll have at least the illusion of privacy in their favour. If anything, they can get a quick blowjob out of the way in there.

Unfortunately, he isn’t the only one who came to that conclusion. When they open the door to the supply closet, they’re greeted with the sight of Zayn on his knees, lips wrapped around Liam’s dick. Liam’s hands are buried in Zayn’s hair – an apparent obsession after the new haircut that Louis doesn’t really want to know anything else about.

Louis coughs loudly, interrupting Liam’s quite scarring moaning session. Harry’s hand is still entwined with his own, and his grip on Harry tightens, shaking in silent laughter.

“Y'know, I’d give you a round of applause, but to be honest... This club has the worst staff I’ve ever seen, is _anybody_ even working in this place?” Louis snorts. At the sound of his voice, Zayn pulls off, letting Liam's dick slip out of his mouth. God, Louis doesn’t want to see any of this, why is he still _here –_

“Get the fuck out,” Zayn groans, apparently in agreement with that thought. Liam seems unable to say anything, entranced with the sight of Zayn on his knees in front of him.

“Um, yeah, okay,” Harry mumbles, face bright red. Still, he's unable to hide the laughter in his voice. To prevent the situation from getting any worse, he drags Louis out of the small space and back into the club.

“Don’t bother coming home, the flat’s mine tonight!” Louis shouts after them before he leaves. Harry shushes him, embarrassed and amused all at the same time, but Louis can't be bothered to feel bad about it.

If anything, the idiots he works with owe him that much for scarring him with sex everywhere he looks.

~*~

It’s almost light out as they make their way through the Gothic Quarter, the darkness slowly making way for the sunrise. Louis had always imagined that he’d show Harry around once he got the chance, making him see the beauty that Barcelona has to offer in “a whole new world” kind of fashion, sans the flying carpet. None of that ends up happening, though – as he should have predicted, he is attached to Harry’s lips instead, licking into his mouth every chance that he gets.

Now that he has the permission to finally touch Harry any time he wants to, he can’t get enough, making up for endless hours of sexual frustration that made his head foggy, stomach churning with tension since meeting Harry. He can’t keep his hands off Harry’s skin, lets them roam everywhere they can reach.

In short, they’re not doing any kind of sightseeing. Honestly, it is a miracle they make it back to the flat without getting lost in the first place. They untangle from each other for a second to walk up the stairs, laughing as they go. Louis sticks his arse out on purpose, showing Harry another sliver of the black curving his hips, eliciting a groan from behind him that makes him smirk.

They finally make it to the upper floor and Louis jams his keys into the lock, Harry still plastered to his back and pressing kisses against his neck. When he gets the door open, he promptly spins around and kisses Harry deeply, dragging him inside.

“I wanted to show you the city,” Louis whimpers against Harry’s mouth as they stumble deeper into the flat, knocking the lamp from the table and to the floor as they go.

“I don’t care,” Harry whines back, pressing his lips against Louis’ insistently. “Just touch me already, _god._ ”

There’s a rare moment of clarity behind the clouds in Louis’ mind, an idea lighting up the skies. They can have both, still, even if they’re in the flat. He didn’t pick this space for nothing, now did he?

“Follow me,” he says and presses a last kiss to Harry’s lips before crossing the rooms and climbing up a final set of stairs. Harry never lets go of his hand all the while, pressing his lips to wherever he can trace the skin of Louis’ body. It seems like both of them suffer from being addicted to the feeling of each other, unable to detox now even if they wanted to.

Louis tugs him along to the roof, leading Harry onto the terrace that is both his and Zayn’s pride and joy. His terrace isn’t much, not the big fancy ones that the rich people or hotels in Barcelona have. There’s no pool or fancy loveseat, but Zayn and Louis did drag a ratty sofa up onto the roof, throwing a few pillows into the mix. There’s an old lounge chair as well, one of the same as his mum used to have in the garden that they used to lay back in the sun, however sparse.

“What,” Harry breathes out, walking over to the edge and leaning over the railing, “You have a terrace on the _roof?_ ”

“Told you I wanted to show you the city,” Louis says smugly and kisses Harry’s shoulder, letting his lips trail to his neck. He rakes his hands through the back of Harry’s hair, pulling a few strands of hair out of the elastic as he lets his mouth get to work.

As Harry watches over the city in amazement, Louis wraps his arms around his stomach and links their hands together. He takes a deep breath, remembering the smell of Harry as if one simple inhale could memorise it forever. Louis bites down, sinking his teeth into Harry’s pulse point, just to leave him something to remember him by.

“Is that La Sagrada Familia?” Harry asks, voice deep and throaty. He’s still staring across the horizon, shivering into Louis’ hold as he points at a church in the distance.

“Probably,” Louis nods without bothering to look. He’s seen the view a million times before – currently, the way Harry’s shoulders flex against his hold is much more important than anything else Barcelona has to offer.

“Come on, lie down,” he urges, leading Harry over to the lounge chair. He pushes him down onto his back, making sure that Harry can still look across the railing, and gets to work, undressing him quickly. His fingers unbutton Harry’s floral shirt, letting it fall open and spreading across the chair. The result is nothing short of art, endless creamy skin and smooth lines that he would like to put his mouth on any chance he gets.

“Get these off,” he points at Harry’s trousers, because there’s no way in hell he’s peeling those off Harry’s legs. As Harry gets to work on the zipper, Louis kisses him again, just because he’s able to, and then backs off so Harry can _actually_ get naked.

When he eventually takes off his pants and his cock springs free, Louis gets the breath knocked out of him, taken aback by the picture that Harry makes in the cold, the soft glow of the morning just lighting him up enough to make him look ethereal. Louis has never been this hard in his life, this near the edge of exploding.

“Now your trousers, please,” Harry gestures lazily from the chair, “Keep the rest on.”

“What?” Louis asks, taken aback. Still, he obeys, popping the button of his skinnies and sliding it down his legs, leaving on his underwear and the crop top.

“I mean, I already saw your seven in those knickers,” Harry smirks, squeezing Louis’ trapped cock for emphasis, “but now I’d like to get a better look at those double 0’s.”

“I can’t believe you remembered th – _fuck_ ,” Louis breaks off with a whimper as Harry pulls him on top of his lap. The tip of his dick catches against the underside of Louis’ knickers by accident, and he feels a bit silly now, the way he’s almost fully clothed with his hard cock straining against the fabric while Harry is completely starkers.

Harry surges upwards, as if he can tell that Louis is feeling a bit self-conscious. Knowing Harry, he probably does. Louis roams his hands over Harry’s chest, exploring the skin that he’s been aching to touch for what seems like an eternity. His mouth feels dry at the feel of it under his fingertips, of Harry’s heart beating under the touch of his hands. It becomes too soon, too fast, and he grinds forward in lack of self control, rubbing against Harry in pure desperation. The tip of his cock is already leaking through the fabric and it’s embarrassing how wet he already is, how close he is to coming on the spot without any sort of stimulation.

To try and divert attention from himself, he grabs Harry’s cock and gives it a few strokes. The feel of Harry in his hands is something he’s going to have to get used to, but probably never will. He’s heavy in his hands, hot and hard, and it makes the sexiest picture that Louis has seen in his entire life.

“Fuck _me_ , Louis – ” Harry groans out, eyebrows pinched together in arousal. Louis holds a hand over his mouth, silencing him effectively. He can feel Harry’s breath against his palm and it sparks a fire inside of him, flashes of holding Harry down and fucking into him running through his mind. Another time. Tonight, he needs to feel Harry inside of him, needs to know what it will feel like to ride him into oblivion.

“Hold that thought,” Louis says quietly and reaches for his trousers, retrieving the lube and condom from his pocket with his free hand. Tearing the packet open with his teeth, he slicks his fingers up, giving Harry an extra tug before he slides his knickers to the side and slides his index finger into himself carefully.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Harry gasps, staring at Louis fingering himself as if he’s the best thing he’s ever seen. His eyes are trained on where a second finger follows the first, sliding into Louis with more ease than he’d like to admit. He’s been wired up constantly for the past months  – there’s only so much a man can do that doesn’t involve his own hands before he explodes.

Harry stares at him like he’s never seen porn in his life and it’s too much for Louis to grasp, overwhelmed with the feelings that are threatening to spill out of him. Harry’s just _there_ , all milky skin and green eyes and gentleness as Louis opens himself up in Harry’s lap.

Suddenly, he can’t stand looking at his face anymore, needs to distance himself from the view somehow before he comes and ruins the knickers or says something stupid. He goes from touching Harry with both hands to touching him with no hands whatsoever, letting go of Harry’s shoulders. Louis kisses him one last time as he rolls the condom onto Harry’s dick. He pours everything he’s feeling into the kiss, devouring him one last time. He hopes that Harry understands what he can’t say but wants him to know anyway.

Louis gets off of him then and turns around, straddling either side of his hips with his knees. He seats himself in Harry’s lap, confronting Harry with the view of his back and his arse in the too tight knickers.

“What –” Harry starts, dumbfounded. Louis turns his head, looking at Harry over his shoulder. He finds Harry looking back at him with a stricken expression on his face, mouth falling open at the lines of Louis’ back.

“You said you wanted to enjoy the view, innit?” he smirks and throws Harry a wink. “Shall we get on with it, then?”

Before Harry can answer, Louis shoves the knickers aside again and sinks down onto Harry’s cock. He does it so slowly that it is almost torturous, getting drunk on the feeling of Harry inside of him, filling him so good that it’s almost too much right away.

Louis swears, forcing himself to take Harry all the way down. He can’t see Harry, can only see the skyline of Barcelona spread out in front of him, but it makes it better, somehow, makes it feel like a fever dream where he’s ruling the world. An emperor wouldn’t need anything but this, he thinks as he sits himself down, having taken Harry all the way to the hilt. He wiggles his hips one last time and stills, letting the sensations overtake him for a bit.

“Jesus _christ,_ Louis,” Harry groans from behind him. It makes him feel even more powerful, the way he’s apparently able to reduce Harry to a mumbled mess of nothings. Without any warning whatsoever, he lifts himself up slowly, letting Harry’s dick slip out for a bit.

“Whoops,” he near-giggles, grabbing hold of Harry’s dick and sinking back down on it immediately after. He bounces up and down a bit faster, cautious of keeping Harry seated inside of him this time, and tries to find a rhythm.

Once he gets there, it becomes overwhelming too fast. Harry’s so _big_ , is the thing, and he kind of wants it all at the same time as much as he wants it to be over. The position allows Harry to penetrate him deeper in ways that are bordering on uncomfortable. Harry moans, thrusting up as if he can’t help himself, and it almost _hurts_ how deep he goes.

“Hold on, cowboy,” Louis pants out as he keeps up his bounce. Once he gains momentum, he tries to stabilise himself by reaching back, resting his hands on Harry’s thighs. The position allows him to keep his balance as well as keeping Harry still, and why hadn’t he discovered that one before?

He’s still chasing that _something,_ the thrill of the feeling he gets when it’s getting good. In search of it, he picks up a speed, riding Harry faster. The chair creaks under their weight, and Louis is briefly worried that it will break, but then the tip of Harry’s dick hits him just right and oh, fuck there it is, the feeling he’s been chasing after –

“Yes, Haz, _fuck,”_ he hisses as Harry hits that spot again. His vision blacks out for a second, obscuring the Barcelona skyline from view.

“There?” he hears Harry ask breathily. Louis nods, wiping the sweat that’s been starting to form off his forehead, then realises Harry can’t exactly see him do it.

“Yeah, _shit_ , keep doing that,” he whines, arching his back into the motion. He circles his hips down faster, riding Harry earnestly, and feels his orgasm build inside of him, can feel how his stomach starts to tighten at the motions. His legs are beginning to burn with it, the muscles in his thighs straining to keep him up, but he likes the sting of it. The pain strengthens him through it somehow, makes him want it more and faster and right the fuck _now._

“Harry, ‘m so close, please,” he begs, even though he’s never begged for anything in his entire life. He’s not so much riding Harry anymore as he’s just letting it happen, Harry’s hips snapping against his arse so hard that the entire city can probably hear by now.

“Me too, fuck,” Harry pants, “Lou, you’re so _good,_ riding me so well –”

Louis surges forward, curling into the motions as he grabs for Harry’s balls and rolls them in his hands gently. He can barely think, the movement of Harry fucking into him too much for him. When Harry’s giant hands wrap around his hips and hold him in place so he can hit Louis just right, that’s it – he comes, shooting into the knickers harder than he ever has in his entire life.

He pulls off immediately, turning around and pulling off the condom of Harry’s dick before he gets sleepy. He throws it to the ground and bends over, taking Harry into his mouth. It’s something he’s been thinking about since the very second they met, and he wants Harry to come into his mouth, wants to feel what he tastes like. The feel of him is heavy on his tongue, heady and hot between his lips. It’s almost enough to get Louis hard again.

“Lou – _ah,_ ” Harry keens, thrusting up into the heat of Louis’ mouth. Louis takes it in stride, sucking on the head and bobbing along with him. His hand wraps around the base of Harry’s cock, cupping his balls back in his hands. Harry’s breaths are getting louder, heavier. As he sucks him down further, he rubs a thumb against Harry’s rim and it’s the surprise of the sensation that does it, the way Louis rubs against Harry’s hole with intent.

“Oh, shit, _Louis,_ ” Harry gasps and then shoots down Louis’ throat with a long, drawn out moan. Louis sucks him down, ignoring the slightly bitter tinge of it on his tongue. It’s Harry, it’s everything he’s ever wanted, and it’s perfect.

Louis gets up from between Harry’s legs and sits up, ripping off his crop top and stepping out of the panties that are now soaked with his own spunk. He throws them to the ground and crawls upwards, sucking on Harry’s bottom lip again now that his mouth is free for other purposes.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Harry sighs when they break apart, out of breath and completely sated. There’s a slight breeze rustling their hair and cooling them down as Louis settles against Harry’s chest, closing his eyes.

As soon as Louis actually comes back to his senses and can muster up the energy to open his eyes again, he finally gets a good, clear look at Harry. His hair’s a mess from when Louis had run his hands through his bun, springy bits escaping from the elastic in a way that resembles a bird’s nest at best. His fingers are still aching to rake through it, to pull it free and create something entirely new, something that belongs to Louis and Louis only.

“Can I braid your hair?” he asks suddenly, and it’s not like he’s thought of that before, but now that he has, there’s nothing he wants more than this. There’s nothing that sounds better than playing with Harry’s curls in post-coital bliss as they look out over the city, the sound of the ocean playing the role of the soundtrack to their evening.

“I don’t know, can you?” Harry quips, eyes closed to shut out the rising morning sun. If there was ever a time for grammar jokes, it is not now. Not when Louis is still bone-tired, languidly lying against Harry’s chest in a chair that’s a lot squeakier than it should be.

“I have five sisters, of course I can,” Louis bites back, though there’s no fire in his tone whatsoever, and he doesn’t wait for an answer, figuring that’s all the consent he’s going to get from Harry at this point in time. He rearranges them a bit so that his legs are framing Harry’s sides, grabbing hold of his head until it’s resting against Louis’ stomach. He brushes his hands through Harry’s hair, scratching his head a bit as he goes, and Harry practically purrs in response.

“Are you actually a kitten?” Louis asks disbelievingly. He divides Harry’s hair into three sections without thinking about it, retrieving it all from muscle memory. The movements make him feel weirdly at peace, the gesture somehow intimate in a much different way than all the other things they’ve done so far. It’s something in the way his hands brush against the back of his neck, the way Harry trusts him to do anything now that he’s boneless and tired in Louis’ arms, that makes Louis want to hold him and never let go.

“Missed your chance with my drink,” Harry says, cracking one eye open and looking back at Louis. “Could have named it a Meowlotov Cocktail.”

“This is why you’re not a bartender, you git,” Louis groans and leans forward, biting Harry in the bicep like he’s been wanting to do ever since Harry dragged him out onto the dance floor earlier. Harry squeaks, sitting up and staring at Louis accusingly.

“What was that for?” he asks, rubbing over his arm. The half-braid has fallen apart, his hair now framing his face instead. It’s the most open Louis has ever seen him, and his heart clenches at the sight of it.

“Dunno, just wanted to,” Louis shrugs.

“So not only do you have a thing for orgasm denials, there’s a pain kink involved as well? You realise we’re going to have to explore this a bit more?” Harry asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Are you saying there’s _time_ to explore this further?” Louis shoots back, sitting up in the chair as well. A smile spreads across Harry’s face, lighting up everything on the roof of Louis’ flat even brighter  than normal. Louis leans in, unable to stop himself, _again,_ and presses a kiss to Harry’s lips. It’s sweeter than the ones they’ve shared before, the lack of intent shining in its simplicity.

“Did you really think that I would go through the pain of watching you make out with Jack Falahee, only to let you go after one admittedly fantastic shag? Don’t think so, Lou,” Harry answers, voice pitched low. He pulls Louis in closer and kisses his shoulder, sucking down a bit harder than is strictly necessary. The message behind it is clear, _mine mine mine_ bitten into Louis’ skin with every press of his lips.

“Suppose I’m going to have to hear about this for a long time?” Louis sighs, arching into the touch. There’s no answer apart from the bites turning into loving kisses down his back. If it means that Harry’s going to have a bit of a possessive streak from now on, Louis can’t say that he regrets any of this.

Sleep overtakes them soon after and they drift into oblivion on the rooftop, naked as the day they were born in the early Barcelonian sun. Later, they’ll wake up with sunburns all over their bodies, showing up to the club resembling a pair of giant lobsters. Liam and Zayn will be unable to look any of them in the eye, and Niall will whoop and say he’d always known it was coming, before finding a new girl for the night and disappearing from the premises.

The rest will kind of stay the same, really. There will still be umbrellas and puns that make Louis’ brain melt, and there will still be songs that Harry plays in Louis’ honour and Louis will try to guess the name of. The only difference is that he will get to take Harry home at the end of the night and have his orgasm delayed as long as he likes.

It’s everything Louis could never ask for and everything he never knew he needed, until he met Harry Styles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alas, for the prompt: _Harry is the DJ, Louis is the barman in a club (in a setting of your choice, a holiday island/cruise ship/club). Harry is confident, has girls and boys falling at his feet, a little cocky/arrogant. Louis hates him, is completely obsessed but it comes across as hate. They argue a lot but it just builds up the sexual tension. Don't mind them having other sexual partners as long as it's those two end game. Making each other jealous, showing off, odd drunken hook up between them that has a lasting impression._
> 
> Obviously, I didn't really stick to the whole "it comes across as hate" thing. Sorry. I hope you're happy nonetheless!
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://loveloveolivia.tumblr.com) The fic post can be found [here](http://loveloveolivia.tumblr.com/post/146510859126/ache-to-know-the-song-he-sung-by-onlyhuman).


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